


lembre de mim

by bleakmidwinter



Series: Memories of Cape Verde [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amnesia, Angst, Cape Verde, Dancing, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall, Post-Season/Series 03, the separate perspective fic i've always wanted to write lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Will Graham's perspective of Perda De Memória—Reading the first in this series isn't required, but it is recommended.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Memories of Cape Verde [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012899
Comments: 17
Kudos: 141





	lembre de mim

**Author's Note:**

> After the fall, Hannibal wakes with no memory. Will must navigate their escape to Cape Verde and deal with Hannibal even while he does not remember him.
> 
> lembre de mim  
> english translation from portuguese; remember me

They say hitting water from a height passing ten feet is like hitting concrete.

Will didn’t get that. Hannibal had broken their fall, and he’d felt himself collide with his body hard as they landed. Only then had he felt the cold bite of the midnight waves. 

Hannibal had taken the brunt of the fall because of course that’s how he’d like it to be. They had to live, in whichever fashion fate and circumstance would allow. The universe made a decision for Will, and who is Will to deny the last nagging voice in his mind demanding him to _let go?_

This is why he doesn’t hesitate pumping Hannibal’s lungs after he digs his nails into solid land, hauls them up on shore. This is why he ignores the passing thought that says, _you could leave him here to die and still make it home in time for dinner._ Will is through resisting. 

Hannibal is only halfway awake when Will slings one of his arms under his shoulders. He helps him up the stone steps carved into the cliff, as if made for their convenience. Every bone in his body is screaming and every scrape and cut is still pouring the contents of his body out. He feels weak, pathetic. 

There is a good chance they may still die. 

“Chiyoh…” Hannibal mumbles, eyes closed. “Call her.” 

“I’m a bit busy,” Will responds gruffly, sucking in one sharp breath when they reach the top before continuing to lug Hannibal towards the cliff house. They pass Dolarhyde without a glance. 

Hannibal is becoming far too heavy. He hobbles them both to the couch and plops Hannibal’s body down. He is out like a light, sinking horizontally into the cushions. 

Before Will can panic, his brain goes into medical mode. 

Earlier, Hannibal had given him a crude tour of the house, at Will’s request. 

Hannibal had made sure to give him the runabouts of the necessities. Specifically, he’d shown him the closet of medical supplies he’d used to incapacitate and maim Miriam Lass. Will had assumed the wound where Abigail’s ear had been had needed some tending to as well. 

He doesn’t allow his bitterness to absorb into him. He lets it drift away like dandelion wisps and focuses on the sting of his wounds, and what he imagines feels the same for Hannibal, while he retrieves the necessary supplies. He grabs a phone from the living room, tucking it into his pocket for when he needs to call Chiyoh.

Not before they’re out of harm’s way. 

Wrapping Hannibal up isn’t difficult. He is pliant in his sleep, despite being heavy. Once he’s reasonably sure he’s successfully dressed Hannibal’s wounds, he gets to work on his own. He realizes halfway through, his hands are shaking violently. 

The heat in this house is absent, pouring out of the broken window as they speak. 

Will doesn’t think as he crosses the room and lights a fire in the hearth. Something, anything to make this experience less taxing. While sitting in front of the fire, he uses skin glue to painstakingly fix his cheek. The abscess around the cut burns when he’s finished running a finger over the wound. 

For now, it will work. 

When he feels like he can breathe properly and not fall apart at the seams, he returns to Hannibal’s side, shaking him mildly so as to not disturb his injuries. 

“Hannibal,” he says, but the man remains cold. With a frustrated huff of breath, he attempts to disallow his paranoia to get the best of him. Hannibal won’t die, that’s not in his nature. 

He shakes him again, harder. This lasts for ten minutes. 

“Chiyoh,” he demands eventually, and Hannibal’s eyes flutter open, latching onto him with familiar intensity. “How do I call Chiyoh?” 

Hannibal is shivering and bewildered. Will assumes the disorientation of waking up, bandaged and alive, after such a drop will do that to even the most poised of men. 

In lieu of an answer, Hannibal glances at the bookshelf behind Will, specifically to the third shelf. _I can work with that,_ Will thinks as he crosses the room to rummage through the books. It isn’t hard to pick out a small black agenda, with lists upon lists of names and numbers. 

He tugs the phone out of his pocket, and dials Chiyoh’s number. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“Chiyoh, it’s Will. Hannibal is injured,” Will says in a rush. 

There is a silence, so long Will thinks Chiyoh is either planning on hanging up or planning on killing him the second she finds him. 

“How badly?” she asks, voice smooth as ice. 

“Uh, broken ribs I think, I don’t know. He got shot. We’re at a house he owns, on a cliff.”

“Did you do it?” She obviously doesn’t need the specific address. 

“Not most of it.” 

A beat. 

“I’ll be there in two hours. Hannibal has a boat docked close by. I can drive the both of you. Don’t move.” 

Will sighs, a mixture of relief and agitation. 

“Two hours? I’ve already wasted an hour trying to wake him up.” It isn’t a complete lie. They’d been wasting hours upon hours waiting for the Dragon before battling him to the death in a metaphysical game of brute strength and stamina.Yet, the police could be here any minute, and it grates stupendously on his nerves. _Take a breath._ “Okay, fine. We’ll be here.” 

Chiyoh hangs up, and Will leaves the phone on the shelf in front of him. The phone book, he tucks into the back of his pants. They might need to call Chiyoh again, or someone else. Hell knows where they’ll end up, who they’ll need to speak with to get their affairs in order.

It strikes Will in this instance he hasn’t fully considered leaving.

He finds he doesn’t have time to bother dissecting his reasons why. 

Instead, he moves to the couch where Hannibal is watching him attentively. He kneels so they are eye level, suppressing a smile. 

“Chiyoh says you have a boat docked nearby. We can be on the water in two hours. Do we need anything?” he asks. It calms his nerves knowing that Hannibal must have planned for this eventuality, however Hannibal doesn’t speak.

He continues looking at Will, with brazenly curious eyes. As if _Will_ should know what they need, not him. Hannibal is always at the ready with a response, always prepared with the curl of his tongue, and his quick brain spitfiring ideas. Silence is unheard of. 

Hannibal shakes his head, and Will wonders if maybe his throat hurts. All that salt water might be burning him up inside. How much had he swallowed? 

Will sighs. Nothing, then. 

They’ll be getting on a boat, hopefully already stocked with necessities, for however long they choose to sail. Just them, their skin, and their bones. If their bodies can make it that long. 

He watches Hannibal register his surroundings, and then look toward the broken window, out to the body of Francis Dolarhyde, as still as he has ever been. Will feels a moment of warm triumph, exhilaration towards what they’ve done. 

For once, the guilt doesn’t come. 

“Did we kill him?” Hannibal asks softly.

Will turns back to him, a glare at the ready, but what he’s feeling isn’t offense, it’s confusion. There is no way that Hannibal can worry that Dolarhyde is still alive. Unless this is a joke, a poor one, but Will’s not one to judge at the moment.

He cracks a smile, best he can with the pain in his cheek. 

“I’d say tearing someone’s throat out with your teeth qualifies as pretty damn dead, Hannibal,” he responds, “How are you feeling?” 

Hannibal licks his lips, gazing into the middle distance absently. 

“Like death,” he murmurs.

“Yeah me too,” Will says with a chuckle, and then the tone of his voice sinks in. 

Hannibal sounds close to frightened. Out of his element. Will watches with horror as he turns to look at Dolarhyde again, not a hint of understanding in his eyes. He doesn’t know where they are, who that man is. What had been done to him. 

Hannibal turns back to him, and not a single spark of recognition lights up in his eyes.

“No,” Will mutters, the words spilling from his mouth before he can stop them. “You’re not–” He grows closer, trying to find that goddamn _spark_ in his stare, the one that is absent. _Look at me, why won’t you look at me?_ He is looking, but he can’t see him, not as he had earlier, on this very same day. With a compounding feeling of desperation he asks, “What is my name?”

“I…” Hannibal looks nervous. “I’m unsure.” 

Will fears he’s going to collapse, instead he recoils, nearly falling on the floor with the force of the admission. Hannibal Lecter has amnesia, and Will is the only one who remembers what happened tonight. He stares everywhere that isn’t Hannibal’s face, almost too in shock for words. 

It is too much to process all at once, and so he chooses not to. 

Not right now. 

“Will Graham,” he opts for a gentle approach, but the sound of his own tenderness sets his teeth on edge. He wasn’t made for this. “Bastard, only _you_ would do this to me.” 

Hannibal would find this hilarious, and fitting. To make Will suffer one last time, to watch him squirm and struggle. Let him deal with this burden, the heaviest of all. He had been _seen,_ and now Hannibal sees nothing. Can’t possibly see Will ever again until he regains… 

He is being foolish. He should apologize, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he asks, “What _do_ you remember?”

“I remember being cold and damp,” Hannibal starts like a lost child would, unsure of his words and phrasing. It appears he wants to avoid confrontation, and Will can’t say that he blames him. He isn’t the most comforting presence. “I woke to you asking me where Chiyoh’s number was. Anything before then is lost.” 

“Christ.” _We’re not even back to square one we’re back to square zero._ Why hadn’t Hannibal said anything when he’d woken up? “How did you know where the phone book was?” 

Hannibal shakes his head. 

“I looked on instinct. I don’t know.” 

Will nods. At least there’s instinct, if nothing else.

“This isn’t good Hannibal. You were supposed to have everything figured out. We’re basically dead in the water if I’m in charge.” 

Hannibal is looking at him in that way again. In that questioning and ogling way. It is reminiscent of the way he looked at Will when they’d met, just with a lot more blood and paler skin. Less smiling. A pang of regret thumps in Will’s chest. 

“Can you explain what happened here?”

Will looks back to check the clock. Just a couple of hours, and Chiyoh will be here. 

“We certainly have the time, but I’m not going to tell you anything important about you or me until we’re on the water, okay? It’s more than a lot to process. I haven’t even finished processing it, if I’m being honest.” 

Will surely can’t process any of it while Hannibal is in this condition. What they’d shared had been mutual, and Will can’t very well revel in it with an empty vessel, no matter how intently said vessel keeps staring at him. It makes him ache. 

“Thank you, Will.”

His name coming from Hannibal’s lips startles him, and he averts his gaze. Hannibal had said his name on the cliff, before they’d fallen. 

_This is all I ever wanted for you, Will._

How is it Hannibal cannot remember such a beautiful thing? 

The reality that he needs to pull himself together hits him like a freight train, and he takes in a deep breath to calm himself. 

“Right now all you need to know is that the two of us killed that man outside. We fell from the cliff and survived. I have tended to our wounds, and the police will be looking for us. Hence, the boat.” 

For a man with no memory, he takes this information quite well. 

“We are criminals?” Hannibal concludes thoughtfully. 

He is shivering, and with a frown Will realizes he must still be cold. 

“I’ll tell you more later,” Will snaps it out without thinking. He really should tone down the acrimony for Hannibal’s sake. This isn’t Hannibal, not entirely. “Sit tight.” 

There had been shock blankets in the medical cupboard. He retreats to it, glad for the reprieve it gives him from Hannibal’s scrutiny. He is overly curious and especially so about Will. Will is positive he’d feel the same in his position, but this is only making Will’s shoulders feel heavy, and his heart aches with an unfamiliar strain. It all results in some kind of uncomfortable nausea. 

He grabs an orange shock blanket, and returns, tucking it over Hannibal and avoiding his gaze as he does so. He does not want to be judged for this, especially not by an absent friend.

“You said you were cold,” Will clarifies, sitting back on his haunches beside the couch. 

“Who is Chiyoh?” Will can’t suppress his irritation, then feels guilty when Hannibal adds, “I apologize, I merely want to understand.” 

_Who wouldn’t?_

Preparing for the inevitability of longer conversation, he pulls up a chair and sits down in front of him, crossing his legs and keeping his eyes untelling and fierce.

“Chiyoh is a friend of yours. A family friend, even.” 

Will smirks. She once trusted Will to give him her blessing, a long time ago. A blessing which had ended with a bullet in his arm, but hey, bygones. 

“Can I help you with that?” Hannibal asks suddenly. 

Will blenches under his observation. 

“With what?” 

“Your arm, it needs to be reset.” _Oh, that._

“And how did you know that?”

Instinct again? It hardly seems likely. A part of Will wants this to be an act, some April fools joke gone wrong, but it isn’t April, and Will isn’t laughing. As much as he’d love to catch him red-handed, he knows this is real. Hannibal could never do something so cruel, even after years of mental torture and manipulation. 

“I don’t know,” Hannibal replies, and Will believes him. 

Will scoots his chair closer, and turns so his arm is facing Hannibal. He listens to the small, pained breaths that fall from Hannibal’s lips as he forces himself to sit up. Once he’s up, he moves gracefully, and sets his hands on Will’s arm. 

A gasp escapes him.

The shirt is tattered, and he can feel Hannibal’s fingertips on his skin. The last time they touched had been electric, filled with an overwhelming sense of belonging. He can almost feel the residual effects, making him weak, wanton. He shoves those feelings down, focuses on the pain instead. 

“It will only hurt for a moment,” Hannibal comforts, and Will holds back the response _‘It better.’_ He needs it to hurt. 

The pain drowns out his thoughts for a glorious second. The sound of the bone snapping back into place sends a shudder down his spine, and he arches his back when it's done, reveling in the moments of bliss that comes with the sensation. It had been enough to quell his anxiety momentarily. 

Hannibal is back on the couch, covered in his blanket. 

Will’s mind betrays him by calling the presentation in front of him _attractive._

_My mind’s betrayed me for worse,_ he thinks wryly. 

“Am I a doctor?” Hannibal questions before Will can become completely lost in his memories. He supposes Hannibal doesn’t have that luxury. 

“Yeah, but I used to think your handwriting was a little too good for it.” 

Hannibal smiles, and Will’s heart skips a beat. 

“A criminal and a doctor,” he muses, almost playful. 

“I keep pleasant company.” 

The smile remains on Hannibal’s face, and Will couldn’t be gladder for it. He’s reminded of the time they ate ortolans together, the time Hannibal had first brought him breakfast, and when they’d looked into each other’s eyes with the sound of the waves crashing into rock below. 

“Who are you?” Hannibal asks, innocently. 

Will could kill him right now, just to save himself the pain of suffering through this, but the pain of separation he can imagine (with some experience) would feel far worse. 

“Besides being Will Graham, who are you?” 

Will goes back to the answer he’s always gone back to. The answer he’d given Jack Crawford when confronted with this deadly attraction he harbors towards Hannibal’s whims. The answer he’d given Alana when she’d inquired after his emotional masochism on a foggy morning in Baltimore.

He swallows. 

“Your friend.”

* * *

“How long has he been out?” Chiyoh asks, rousing Will from his half sleep. 

She looks the same as ever, black silk hair tied tightly into a bun, and a long gun half the size of her body strapped to her chest. Her outfit is brown and green, militaristic. 

“Christ,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Hell, you could knock.” 

“Might have startled you more,” she deadpans, then gestures to the broken window. She pointedly doesn’t mention the dead body on the esplanade. “You left a hole in the wall for me to walk right on in.” 

Will seethes. 

“I called you for help, not to be badgered.” 

“I am not badgering,” she states, stepping closer so she can observe Hannibal’s unconscious form. She cocks her head, in approval of his medical capabilities. “We must carry him to the car.”

“I can,” Will says without thinking, wobbling to a stand. He feels light-headed and slightly butchered. The ocean had not been kind, neither had the Dragon. 

“Together. If you were to faint while carrying him, I wouldn’t want to bother coming back for you,” she moves to Hannibal’s legs and gestures for Will to lift him up on the other end. 

“You would,” Will challenges. “You know how much I mean to Hannibal.”

“You’re destructive,” Chiyoh tells him, voice strained as they lift him in unison. “You will either be the death of him, or you’ll lock him up like a caged animal…again.” 

“I have no desire to lock him up, not anymore,” Will begrudgingly admits. “I felt more undignified than Hannibal, knowing he was in that _cell_ because of me.” 

They carry him over the broken glass, outside into the cold air. The sea breeze hits Will’s nose, and he tries not to gag at the memory of salt water finding its home in his throat. They carry Hannibal almost effortlessly to Chiyoh’s black car. The engine is running, drenching them in red light. 

“For his sake, I hope you’re telling the truth.” 

“I’m going to grab some medical supplies,” Will says, retreating back to the house.

“We have those on the boat,” Chiyoh calls out. “Get in the car.”

Will looks back and forth between her and the cliff, then toward the bluff. So much has happened here, just in the last few hours. He can’t imagine not needing something. Anything. 

“Come now, Graham,” she says, softer this time. 

He does, realizing all he needs is Hannibal. Alive and well. The ‘well’ part of those conditions is running a bit thin, but he can’t do anything about that for the moment. It will feel good to tell Chiyoh, to get some insight on the matter other than his own singular fear. 

On the ride to the boatyard, with Hannibal passed out in the backseat, he gathers his courage. 

“I need to tell you something.”

“You tried to kill him again?” she asks, plainly. 

“What? No…well yes, technically I did, but I was trying to kill both of us, it isn’t, it–that isn’t any of your business. I need to tell you something else.” 

Chiyoh comes across unaffected by his rambling, and keeps her eyes on the road. Her silence is her only offer of hearkening. 

“Hannibal doesn’t know who he is, or who I am. Or who you are for that matter.”

Chiyoh blinks too fast, eyes still on the road, but hands tighter on the wheel. 

“Amnesia?” 

“I guess,” Will shrugs. “I know it’s a thing, I’ve just only ever seen people have it in movies. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Maybe he’ll wake up and know who we are, but he was out of it back in the house. I’ve never seen him that lost.” 

“I see,” she answers, unhelpfully. 

Will sighs. “Chiyoh, you said we’re going to a boat, but if he’s gone all Henry Molaison on me, he’s not going to tell me where we’re going.” 

“You think I have the answers for your personal affairs?”

“Surely you know where one of his safe houses is.” 

A not-smirk crosses Chiyoh’s face. “Would you like a list of these locations? And all of his secret bank accounts? I’m sure the FBI would finally like to take a look at the assets they’ve been drooling over for the past three years.”

Will sees red. 

“The only reason I haven’t killed you is because you’re the closest thing to family Hannibal can claim, that doesn’t mean I don’t have other means of influence over you, as you say.” 

“A weak threat, Mr. Graham,” she bites out. “I do not find your newfound despotism becoming of you.” 

For a moment, Will is comforted by the familiar banter. It is close to a conversation he’d be having with Hannibal, perhaps with more sentiment between the lines. With Chiyoh, he feels like an in-law doomed to be castigated for eternity. 

They pull into a private docking port. Chiyoh parks the car, and shuts off the engine, but remains seated, half turned towards Will, but looking absently out towards the dimly lit boatyard. 

“Chiyoh,” Will starts out gentler, “If you’re the closest thing Hannibal has to family, then I consider you as my own. You’ve dealt with my deception, have seen it’s cold insincerity, and will you say that you are witnessing the repeat of that now?”

Chiyoh meets his gaze blankly, and curls her fingers around the gun strapped to her chest. 

“If you want me to tell you that I believed Hannibal needed to be punished, fine. It could be the truth. If you are going to believe that he deserved to be punished, believe that he deserves retribution as well. Believe that I want to give him that, that I need to give him that, because I want it for him as well as I want it for me. We deserve each other, Chiyoh.” 

She watches him thoughtfully then speaks, “You lied when you told me he was your Nakama.” 

Will releases a shuddery sigh. “I know, listen–”

“You are his Koibito.” 

Will stalls, puzzled for so long that Chiyoh exits the car and moves to open the doors of the back seat. Will scrambles out of shotgun, and aids her in carrying Hannibal out of the vehicle. They move him down the empty dock while Will’s head is still buzzing with confusion. 

_Nemesis? Another word for friend, maybe?_

Chiyoh doesn’t appear revolted by him, just stiff with displeasure. She might not like him, but she seems to finally acknowledge he has a firm and immovable place in Hannibal’s life. 

Chiyoh moves around the ship and retrieves a key from an obscure hiding place Will didn’t manage to get a good look at. She hands it to Will.

“Can you manage getting him into bed? I must return to my car briefly.” 

Will nods, scooping an arm around Hannibal’s waist as she vanishes into the nightly fog. He turns the key in the lock of the cabin door, and enters into a darkened room. 

“Come on,” he grunts, lugging Hannibal across the room to help him lie on the bed.

He moves to switch a light on, and admires the beauty of the cabin. Purple accents, wood-panelled walls. It is hellishly dusty, but Will’s standards have never been high. He moves Hannibal into a position that looks more comfortable for him, lying flat on his back on the right side of the bed. Hannibal’s arms splay out, and with each breath, his chest rises and falls dramatically. 

Will catches himself staring only when Chiyoh finally returns with a bag and her car keys in hand. She looks between them, her expression as vacant as ever. 

“You should get some rest,” she tells him.

The mere thought of getting rest makes his knees weak. 

“No, it’s okay, I’ll stay up, help with anything you–”

“Cape Verde,” she says, a smile finally poking through her steel exterior. 

His knees are definitely going to give out. He circles the bed, and allows himself a moment to sit. His thighs sink into the mattress, and his eyes nearly slip closed. He lets out a questioning hum. 

“I have no insights into Hannibal’s plans for he and you, however, I will suggest we head to Cape Verde. I know of a safe house there, and the extradition treaty with the U.S. is null.” 

“Good…good choice,” Will mumbles, wracked with exhaustion. He succinctly wonders why Chiyoh is suddenly amenable to handing out information.

“Get some rest,” she says again, this time ordering him to. “I will return with painkillers for you as soon as I sort through the medical supplies.”

“Thank you, Chiyoh,” Will says genuinely, relief washing over him when she leaves and closes the door behind her. He turns, glancing once more at Hannibal before getting up and rummaging through the draws of the sole dresser. There are shirts of different sizes, of course ones that are fitted to him pressed inside the bottom drawer. 

He removes his tattered shirt, throws it in the trash bin for later disposal (hopefully by fire), and shucks on a new one, leaving his pants on as he doesn’t have the energy to try on jeans and see which pairs fit. He takes the phone book out and places it on the bureau. 

He tries not to moan at the feeling of expensive silk hugging his skin tight. 

Will climbs on top of the covers, beside Hannibal and watches him. He pretends for a moment Hannibal remembers the beauty of their kill, and he closes his eyes, asleep in the next. 

* * *

Will wakes up to Hannibal’s face, closer than before. 

He glances down to see Hannibal’s fingers nearly intertwined with his own. It sends a rush down his spine, and he retracts his arm with little grace. He stumbles off the bed in the next instant, despite the screaming ache of his entire body. His adrenaline seems to have worn off, and he’s cold. 

The room hasn’t changed, the door is still closed, but there are now two glasses of water and some pills on the bedside table. Two pills left, and one of the glasses is half empty. 

Hannibal must have woken up. 

He exits the cabin to breathe in fresh air, and feel the sun on his face. He’s never been so relieved to experience the morning, and Chiyoh’s unamused expression at the bow of the ship does little to sway the feeling. She cocks a brow when he moves closer. 

“Why didn’t Hannibal wake me?”

“Why didn’t you wake Hannibal when we first unlocked the cabin?”

_Touche._

“He woke up about thirty minutes ago,” she explains. “We had a conversation that didn’t rouse you, so I’m certain he assumed you were beat, as Americans say.” 

“Do I take one or two pills?”

“Two.”

They are surrounded by ocean, blue-green and swashing around them as the boat sails.

Before he returns to the cabin, he watches her for a moment. She’s left her gun by some boxes at the front of the ship, and she has her hair loose. She almost looks young. 

For a moment, he wonders what would happen if he asks what that word means. 

_Koibito._

Instead, Will returns to Hannibal’s side.

He stretches his limbs, and hobbles around to the bed to retrieve his painkillers. He downs them with two chugs of water, and sucks his teeth to feel the chill of the liquid in his mouth. 

When he glances at Hannibal again, he finds his eyes open.

“You’re awake. Chiyoh tells me you woke up a while ago.”

“Just long enough to take my pills,” Hannibal rasps.

For a moment, Will can pretend Hannibal knows who he is, where he is, where they’re going. He can pretend they’re in this together and that the ache of separation isn’t already tearing at his insides like venom with teeth. 

He looks him over, ponders if he should help him redress his wounds. 

“Will you tell me what our destination is now?” Hannibal asks with wide, imploring eyes. 

_There it is, the reminder._ Will grimaces. 

After sitting down on the bed, Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes one last time for that answer. The one that tells him Hannibal is screwing with him. Tries to see it, close in those glossy brown orbs, but all he sees is empty, cavernous space. Hannibal watches him, only somewhat baffled. 

Some darker part of Will wants him to kick and scream and demand answers, but he waits, patiently and politely, for Will to lead him unto the horizon. 

“Are you scared?” Will asks, because he would be.

Hannibal meets his gaze.

“No.”

Will swallows down a smile, before admitting, “See, if I were in your situation, I’d be terrified. Not knowing where I’m going, side by side with a killer. Not knowing who I am, or why I am being hunted.” 

“I have not felt fear for a moment since waking up. There is a subtle sense of trust when I look at you, though I do not understand why.” _Trust huh?_ “I find it comforting that fate has left me in your hands even if my memories have been taken as consequence.” 

_Of course he knows the right things to say, always has._

“Is that right?” Will asks, allowing himself to glance at Hannibal’s plump lips before flicking his gaze back up. He wants to get right to the point, without further distraction. “We didn’t fall from the cliff, I dragged us off.” 

_Kick and scream and beg to escape me._

“You must have had a good reason,” Hannibal says conversely. 

It’s the last straw for Will who is itching for something to fight against. This version of Hannibal is too close to the real thing. He wants to claw at the empty vessel of him, not have the universe tease him with the barely there edition of Hannibal. It’s too close, too comforting, too familiar to hear him talk like this, and not be able to reach out and touch him, to remember _together_ how it felt to become one. 

Before he realizes it, he’s pacing in front of the bed, lip curling with each step. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, gathering his faculties. 

“Cape Verde,” he tells him.

“Just off the west coast of Africa.” 

“Yeah, Chiyoh said you have property there. We’ll be safe for a while, hopefully as long as it takes for your memories to come back. We don’t know if this was your first plan. I don’t know if you even had a plan when you knew you were free, but we’re going there. There’s apparently no extradition treaty with the U.S.”

Will takes a moment to breathe, force the weight off his shoulders.

“Baía das Gatas.” 

The weight is back. Will turns to stare at Hannibal.

“What?”

“I’m not sure, but I believe that is the village where I purchased the property.”

A thin string of hope wraps around Will and he allows himself to feel it fully, freely, as he looks into Hannibal’s eyes and sees someone willing to at least try and make this easier on him.

“You remember?” he asks quietly.

“No, I…” Hannibal trails off, looking around until his eyes fall on his glass of water. Will doesn’t think before he rushes to his side. Sitting on the bed, he holds the water cup close so Hannibal can drink out of the straw. He bows his head when Will takes it away, and he tries not to feel warmth at the wordless praise. He continues, with a voice no longer dry, “I had a feeling, and the words just came to mind.”

“Strange. Do you know how this could have happened?” 

Will would like some answers if he has to deal with this for the time being. 

“Amnesia can be caused by several factors. It could have been head trauma, emotional distress, sudden immersion in hot or cold water, which is what I fear may have happened when we fell from the cliffside. Even sexual intercourse can cause something called transient global amnesia.”

_Sexual Intercourse._

It is either the clinical way it was worded or because Hannibal himself is saying as such, but for the first time in a long time, a full bellied laugh stumbles out of Will. He avoids verbally dismissing that sexual intercourse had anything to do with his amnesia considering the last three years, but he is more than tempted. 

“You’re pulling my chain.” 

Hannibal smiles, “I am not,” followed by a small frown. “In all actuality, I am not sure if I am. I have the knowledge, and I’m positive I’m right, but I do not remember becoming a Doctor, earning my license. I could be a fraud for all I know.”

They’re lucky he remembers his medical training at least, otherwise living together might end in fatal catastrophe.

“You’re a fraud for a bundle of reasons, but you’re an excellent Doctor,” Will tells him with as much kindness as he can muster. It seems to please Hannibal who reacts with an expression approaching bashful, which is far too weird for Will to even process. 

“Is there a way I can get you to remember?” he asks. 

“Associations may help,” Hannibal suggests and Will lights up inside at the possibility of easy recovery. “Imagery and verbal reminders. Things like songs, scents, certain words can all be triggers. Though, there is no actual cure, as it is a different experience for everyone.” 

_Scents._ Oh, if Hannibal only knew. 

“If only I was still suffering from Encephalitis.”

“Hmm?” Hannibal hums, head tilting. 

“You smelled my neck once, it’s, nevermind–” he rambles, thinking about the moment far too viscerally. Hannibal had been so close then, what if Will had accused him of flirtation?

“Perhaps start with names,” Hannibal suggests lightly. 

Will nods. He hadn’t been expecting to do this now, but there’s no time like the present. And it’s not as if they can go anywhere, being in the middle of the ocean and then some. He scoots closer, closing his eyes for a moment to relax himself, and then opens them to find Hannibal waiting patiently, eyes entirely on him alone. 

“Mischa,” he says, feeling she is their best shot for this exercise. 

For a moment, Will thinks it might be as easy as this. Hannibal looks thoughtful, searching inside his own mind, but he shakes his head and Will is unable to suppress his chagrin.

“Abigail,” he tries, struggling to get her name out.

Hannibal shakes his head again, almost instantaneously. 

“I feel ridiculous.” _Hopeless_ , Will doesn’t add. 

“Yet you are doing me a remarkable favor. Swallowing your pride to help me remember. It may seem ridiculous now, but I do appreciate it. Even if I cannot recall the memories themselves, I have been yearning for more context.”

Will looks up to find only honesty in his expression. He wants to reach out, put his cheek up against his sternum, just like before. He wants Hannibal to understand the significance, but he won’t, so he buries his urges.

“Alana Bloom.” 

“Nothing.”

Will is only mutedly smug. 

“Bedelia,” he forces out.

Hannibal reacts then, something popping up in his mind. Will wants to rip open his skull and crawl in there to see for himself just what it is Hannibal is seeing. Of course he remembers Bedelia, because how else could he torture Will in this state?

“I do not know who she is though there is a feeling in my mind that she is either an old flame or a threat,” Hannibal talks slowly, treading dark waters. “It is unsettling.”

It feels better to hear he doesn’t remember anything specific, and it does please Will to hear he assumes she’s a threat. He spurns the ex-flame bit, however.

“Why can’t someone be both?” He’s certainly not going to tell Hannibal he’d gotten it right. Bedelia is both old flame and threat, if she wants to be.

Will could lie, dismiss Bluebeard’s wife as nothing more than a petty acquaintance. He could dismiss her, indignify her and Hannibal would be none the wiser. 

_How can the cold, naked Truth fight against the glittering enchantment of Falsehood?_

But, this isn’t a fairy tale. He cannot shape this Hannibal to be a different man anymore than he can will Hannibal’s memories back into their rightful place. 

Despite the lies and the manipulation, Will would never indignify _Hannibal_ that way.

He names a few more names, blandly. Nothing crosses Hannibal’s features when he mentions Jack, Beverly, or even Freddie Lounds. He had expected disdain at least, perhaps his normal amount of hubris. But, the effort is fruitless. After a while, Will begins to wonder if Hannibal needs physical reminders. Visuals of some sort. Naming names can only go so far, and Will imagines he’s exhausted all the names that mean anything to Hannibal in the long run. 

With trembling hands, he lifts his shirt up revealing the scar Hannibal had given him all those years ago. In his kitchen in Baltimore. 

He takes Hannibal’s hand gently, startling him with the initiative. He places his palm over the scar, encouraging him to touch, feel as he pleases. To remember something. 

Hannibal’s eyes gloss over as he stares at the scar, brushing it lightly with his fingers. The touch sends electricity up and down Will’s spine, but he keeps still. His belly is quivering lightly, he can’t help that, and he curls his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist when he scrapes a thumb over the scar. Arousal rushes through him abruptly, painful in its arrival, and he can see in Hannibal’s eyes that he _knows._

With shock and disappointment at the outcome, he jerks away. His scar is covered again, his dignity mutilated, and Hannibal is no more closer to his memories than he had been minutes prior. 

He stares at the wooden walls sealing them in, tries to imagine the trees they originated from. He tries _not_ to think about how Hannibal can’t possibly understand in this state, what lies restlessly between them. 

“I’m going to go talk with Chiyoh,” Will expresses, exhaustion and anger settling deep in his gut like sediment. He feels as if they won’t leave him for a very long time.

“I’ll rest more,” Hannibal supplies, simple and unknowing. 

“Yeah, yeah you do that,” Will murmurs bitterly, continuing to imagine deforestation and wood panel factories. He turns to leave, then pauses, needing to ask one more question to make sure. 

“Do you speak Portuguese?”

Will refuses to look at Hannibal in the allotted silence. 

“I believe so. I should be fluent enough,” comes the polite response. 

“At least there’s that,” Will mutters, exiting the cabin and slamming the door shut behind him. The sea breeze hits him like a relief he hadn’t known he needed. 

Chiyoh is still in the same place, at the bow of the ship, looking over the waves with indifference. He sidles up next to her and she barely smiles.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Will asks bluntly, suddenly desperate for a drink.

He’s not exactly confident enough in his relationship with Chiyoh to ask if she knows of any alcohol aboard, but he’s more than inclined. 

“I will sleep when you are both awake. I have been on duty with less.” 

“You’re not on duty, you can, uh, relax.” 

“In your eyes,” she states, not bothering to give him the time of day.

In need of a distraction, Will allows himself to take a good look at her. She’s beautiful, just as she had been in Lithuania, and he wonders absently if all of Hannibal’s extended family is beautiful. It would ironically fit with his obsessive need for aesthetic allure to surround his daily existence. 

For the first time since Hannibal and Will had arrived at the cliff house, Will thinks about Molly. He palms his back pocket, and finds the ring he had taken off before the fight with the Dragon is still in his pocket. There is a strange urge building up in his gut to toss it out to sea, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

Molly is gone, and better off. 

Disposing of the ring would be simple now, the right thing to do.

He doesn’t, just continues staring off towards the sea, wondering briefly if Chiyoh knows how to sail a ship. He supposes she wouldn’t attempt it if she couldn’t, but he can’t help being a man sometimes. He wants to know if he should help, take over.

“Lover,” she says and Will tenses.  
  
“What?”

“Koibito means lover,” she clarifies, lips curling up. 

The tension doesn’t drain, it dividends into a new tension, one that stretches inside his body, wraps its way around his heart, into his blood valves, everything keeping his body pumping. 

Bedelia’s words float back to his immediate thoughts.

_“Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you and find nourishment at the very sight of you?”_

_“Yes.”_

Chiyoh doesn’t appear to expect an answer, and she leaves him by the bow, disappearing into the cabin. He is alone above deck, alone with his thoughts, and himself. 

The waves crash by, and the scent of salt wafts higher and higher until he can taste it.

_Is God capable of love, when he kills so often?_

* * *

Their villa in Baía das Gatas, São Vicente is not what Will expected.

Not even with his deep understanding of Hannibal could he have expected over a million dollars of fine luxury for their safe house. He hadn’t expected to feel as if he were on vacation.

Will hates it. 

Too luxurious. Too spacious. Too gaudy. Too _expensive._

There are six bedrooms when they arrive. _Six._ Will has had to sleep in the same room as his father on occasion, he can’t process the idea of six bedrooms. He tells Hannibal right away they’re going to need to turn at least two of them into studies, or anything else for that matter. 

Will feels lost in it, even though the beachside villa isn’t exactly a mansion.

For the first day, he struggles to get used to the bright colors lining the walls, the rugs. He tries not to wonder why the house smells good, despite not being lived in for years. 

When he steps outside, he expects streets and people.

What he sees is large stretches of flat land. He feels the soft gravelly sand underneath his toes, and it forces goosebumps to the surface, a result of his discomfort. They are isolated from the world. It had been the plan, Hannibal’s plan. Make a place for them, leave little room for any outside influence. 

What is the point when Hannibal isn’t here?

At the end of the first day, Chiyoh bids her farewells.

Will stands at the front door with Hannibal, and he feels aimless in his emotions. He doesn’t want her to leave, but a part of him wants to continue Hannibal’s recovery alone. But, Chiyoh understands their history more than Hannibal does right now, that more than anything is what Will is latching onto. If she leaves, the loneliness will eat at him until he’s nothing but scraps.

“Hannibal, I left my bag upstairs. Will you fetch it?” she requests, with her hands clasped behind her back. Will can see in her eyes this is a calculated move. 

None the wiser, Hannibal smiles and does as he’s told, vanishing into the villa.

“Will,” she turns to him fiercely and he tenses. “Hannibal requested that if he were to die before you, that I leave you with his assets.”

“His…assets?” Will asks, sounding pathetically mousy when he does. 

“Bank accounts, the deeds to his other safehouses.” 

Will feels nauseous. 

“Chiyoh, he’s not dead. I think it’s better if you–”

“I will transfer all necessary information to this account,” she hands him a paper with an email and a login. “Trust me Will this is what he would have wanted. He trusted you with this, so I am going to entrust you with this for now.”

“He’s not dead damn it,” Will bites out, but tucks the paper into his pocket.

“I know. But, do you think he’s in the right condition to handle his assets?” 

“No, no he’s not,” he concedes, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from making a fuss. He’s never been good with receiving money or the responsibility to take care of money. He’d never admit to Chiyoh or Hannibal the highlight of his childhood was finally getting a happy meal after years of never believing his father would waste money on such a thing. 

Hannibal returns to his side in the next moment, handing Chiyoh her bag with a bright smile. Will continues to frown, feeling the paper in his pocket like a fifty pound weight. 

Chiyoh bows her head to Hannibal and he mirrors the action.

“Call me if you eventually regain your memories.”

“When,” Will corrects and the silence between the three of them is enough to make him feel embarrassed and foolish. 

“Of course,” Hannibal responds, and Chiyoh leaves.

Just like that, she’s gone for good, and Will is left alone with a man who’d just learned his name not even a month ago. He forces himself to face the warm expression staring back at him.

“She’s letting me handle your accounts while you’re…like this,” Will grumbles, running a hand over his face. “You okay with that?” 

“I trust you to handle my assets if you believe it is wise.”

_Definitely not wise._

Will nods curtly, and moves to the kitchen to see what type of alcohol is stashed here. 

There isn’t much choice, so Will gets wine drunk, as quickly as he can. It is a welcome distraction, one that he’d not had the luxury of on the boat. Hannibal passes him only once while he is sitting in the living room, but he does not remark on the empty wine bottle, or Will’s disheveled state. He goes upstairs to the terrace, to draw.

For the first week, Will is able to keep himself together. 

On the last day of the first week, Will finally opens the email Chiyoh sent to him a few days prior. He clicks through the accounts, the deeds. He finds an innumerable amount of safe houses, and discovers Hannibal’s finances are bottomless. The perks of being a Count, Will supposes. 

The numbers haunt him, and he wonders what would happen if he anonymously emailed Jack the information to access these hidden accounts. For three years the FBI hadn’t been able to find them, and Will could end the whole search with a click.

It is merely a thought, nothing more. Nothing he’d ever go through on, but the fact he’s thinking such things at all inspires him to drink again. Then, it starts happening every night. 

Something will trigger it, Hannibal looking at him with a familiar glint in his eyes, and he’ll pick up the bottle. Or, he’ll drink just to stop that endless buzzing in his head, the one that gets louder and louder the more he dwells on the silence and the isolation of this home.

He goes to the lakes to fish, he doesn’t step foot near the ocean.

He refuses to go back into those depths; the sea has stolen Hannibal’s soul. 

* * *

Hannibal knows Will is avoiding him. 

Will can see it in his eyes everytime they pass each other in the hall. Sometimes Will stands in the doorway of Hannibal’s study just for a fraction too long to bother defending it as ‘passing by’ as he watches him sketch. He sketches places he’s been, but doesn’t remember. It makes Will’s heart ache, and it makes him retreat to his own study and consider what would happen if he pressed a fishing hook into the tip of his thumb. 

Very often in his bedroom late at night, he wonders what their existence would have been like if they had arrived intact, Hannibal with his memories, and Will with his confidence. 

Not with the excruciating knowledge from Bedelia that Hannibal is in love with him, not with the accusation from Chiyoh that they are Koibitos. Not with this understanding starting to form deep inside him, wracking him to his bone, that all he wanted was to run away with Hannibal.

That’s all he ever wanted, for a long time. 

Hannibal might have wanted more, and together they could have figured it out. 

For now, Hannibal knows nothing. He hones his skills, he delights in this new time to heal and relax. This is a vacation for him, while this is just a silver-lined purgatory for Will. 

The drinking continues, and one night he ends up throwing up for thirty minutes, violently expelling the poisonous liquid from his system, feeling his throat burn as he bends over the toilet. 

The panic attack comes not even a moment after his stomach settles, and he’s heaving again, over and over scrambling with nails over the tile floor, sobbing into the grout. 

His mouth tastes like acid, his skin is clammy to the touch. 

The dive off the cliff had been easier than this torment. 

After this fiasco, Will decides to cool off the alcohol just for the time being. 

The wine is running low anyhow, and their last meal with rice and beans had made him feel queasy. Hannibal’s grimace hadn’t been encouraging either. Their supplies from the boat are running low, and Will doesn’t want to suffer through another bowl of dry rice and beans if they could be having genuine fresh dinners. 

He goes grocery shopping, feeling light on his toes for the first time in a while.

He brings home all sorts of things, potatoes, greens, tomatoes, olives, cabbage, some beets from the farmers market. Lots of bread. Will had brought a bag of wine to his room before showing up in the kitchen to present Hannibal with the rest of the groceries. 

Hannibal looks pleased, and for a fleeting moment, Will hates himself for spending so much time avoiding him. With just a smile, the sick feeling in Will’s stomach ebbs off gradually. 

“You’re cooking,” Will orders, glancing hopefully at the produce. 

If anything, cooking could ignite memories. 

“If you think I’ll be any good,” Hannibal responds flirtatiously and Will sighs in response, breath trembling as he tries to ignore his pounding heart. He should tell Hannibal not to do that, but he can’t find the words. 

“It’s sort of your thing,” he explains. “I can look up a recipe if you want.” 

“I think I know what I want to make,” Hannibal replies, keeping his eyes on the brown grocery bags, inspired. “If that is alright.”

“Yeah,” Will gives a jerky nod, “Go crazy.” 

Will is full of white noise and the thought ‘ _He knows what to make’_ playing on a loop in his head. God, _he knows._

He stays in the kitchen to watch Hannibal cook. It feels fundamental to do so, to watch Hannibal cook for the first time since arriving. Since, well, since even before the BSHCI. 

For a moment, Hannibal stagnates, then retrieves the large cod fish Will had caught last week and slaps it down in front of him on a cutting board. 

He smiles, feeling rare warmth and at peace with being sober. 

Hannibal asks him to gather three potatoes for him, and he follows his orders well. For a moment, it feels like they’re in his kitchen in Baltimore, preparing long pig. 

“Do you know what you just made?” Will tries to keep the desperation in his tone to a minimum once Hannibal finishes the dish, but it is hard to drown out his optimism entirely. 

“I believe it is called Bacalhau à Brás. And, while it is usually garnished with black olives, I am sure we will make do with green.”

He _believes._ He doesn’t remember. 

Will sulks, grinding his teeth together. 

“It’s maddening,” he mutters before he can stop himself. 

Hannibal watches him sympathetically and that’s the _last_ thing he needs, his pity. He needs his effort, not his indifferent complacency. Will keeps going, growing enraged.

“You know the recipes, you know how to play piano. You can switch from language to language around the locals like it’s nothing. You reference Dante, but you still…”

“Those suffering from amnesia rarely forget their skills. Or, I should say muscle memory has nothing to do with my condition.”

“I know,” Will says, melting into defeat once more. “I just keep expecting you to remember.”

“In due time, I’m sure. Shall we eat?” 

Hannibal’s smile is incensing. 

“Why are you so lackadaisical about this? Don’t you want to remember who you are?” Will could reach out and slap him, punch him, force him to react. “Where you come from? Who your enemies are, what you’ve done. Who you–” he laughs bitterly. “You know what? Knowing you, you’re probably loving this.” 

If given a choice during the small time allowed in the fall, Hannibal would choose to wake up like this, watch Will struggle as he figures out his feelings without Hannibal’s help. To watch Hannibal not give a damn about his own condition, to keep going through life as if he doesn’t need to know the notoriety of his name, the significance of Will and why Will stays.

_Why do I stay?_

“I take no pleasure in hurting you,” Hannibal says then, and Will holds himself back from screaming. 

Making sure his rage doesn’t boil over, he grabs his plate of food and disappears into his study. His fishing lures greet him with bright neon colors, and the window looks out onto a vast plain of sand and tropical trees in the distance.

Will wonders what would happen if he left, kept walking until he reached the shops and the neighborhoods. If he kept walking would someone pick him up? Bring him home? What would he say to Molly, or Jack?

Molly, again he’s gone so long without thinking of her name. 

He opens his desk drawer and finds the ring alone, shining and invasive. 

He toys with it, feels if he were to put it on, it would fit him no longer.

Why does he not miss the easiness of that life? Why does he not miss Molly or Wally? Why does he not miss the cold comfort of his wife’s body? Why does he torture himself?

_Because Hannibal isn’t here to do it for you._

* * *

Three days later, Will drinks as much as he can handle.

For a while, he thinks he’ll be bent over the toilet again, hurling up every drop of alcohol, but he ends up staring blankly at the television which hasn’t been turned on once by either of them since staying here. Will doesn’t want to see the news, and Hannibal wouldn’t know what he’s looking for. 

He drinks more, until his vision blurs at the edges.

He’s been keeping the ring in his pocket since that night Hannibal had made them dinner. He takes it out now, since Hannibal is on the terrace. 

In the light, it seems like an average meaningless band, but he knows what he has to do. 

His life doesn’t belong to Molly, it never did. 

He can’t hold onto what isn’t real, as much as Hannibal can’t pretend to know what’s real.

Will staggers to his feet, walking at a sloth’s pace to the trash bin in the corner of the room. He tosses it in, feels no different then before and staggers back to the couch to lie on his back.

The room is spinning, and his heart pounds so loudly he fears he’s going to have a heart attack. Before he knows it, tears start to fall. 

It isn’t for his failure of a marriage, it isn’t even for Hannibal.

Will is in love, has been for a while now, and there’s nothing he can do to fix the affliction. It was his choice to drag the both of them off the cliff, and he must live with fate’s consequences. 

* * *

It is the weekend, and they are running low on alcohol, so Will isn’t too pleased to see Hannibal diving into his supply. He deserves the all access pass, considering what he’s sacrificed. 

Hannibal does sit by his side, however, at the ready to drink with him.

The tension between them is a familiar thing, molded and shaped by Will alone, so he knows it by heart. Knows the curves, frown lines, and idiosyncrasies of their manufactured distance. 

It takes Will a minute to realize there is music playing. Will doesn’t know if it’s because of him, but the words sound romantic, echoing through the room with a somber strum. 

“Is this how it is going to be, Will? Alcohol poisoning before you reach your middle age?” 

Of course, Hannibal would need a theme song to accompany his upcoming bombardment of accusations feigned as advice. Will supposes some things never change. 

“It helps,” Will grumbles, chugging down an excessive amount of white wine. 

“Does pretending I don’t exist help?”

Will can almost imagine for a moment that Hannibal sounds hurt, and he feels the guilt rise up in him like bile. He grips his drink tighter and shakes his head. 

“N–No, I’m not pretending that.”

“You are mourning for a man still alive,” he presses. “I see it in your eyes, I can smell the sorrow on your skin. Must I remind you I am still the man you know?”

_Don’t. Don’t prove to me that you’re still here._

“You’re not,” Will argues, feeling the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. “All the right parts are there. Like a boat motor that refuses to work, even after you fix it. There is nothing missing, but it doesn’t rev up. The engine is dead, and there’s no explanation. You remember everything, but you don’t remember me.”

“I do not remember quite a few people, Will. I don’t remember anyone in fact.”

Will doesn’t want to hear facts. He doesn’t want to hear logistics. He wants Hannibal to remember him, only him. Will would be selfish and make that wish, that he could remember only him, if that were a possibility.

“They don’t matter,” he snaps. “I’m the one you should remember, and there’s nothing there. Not even a glimpse of a memory. You had a whole palace, whenever you wanted you could go there and relive anything. With one idiotic decision, I demolished that palace.” 

Torn the bricks to the ground, every room shattered to dust. The Norman chapel exists no more, neither do the catacombs where forgiveness had echoes through the chambers, off the skeletons. 

Just because of one fall. 

Will wonders if Hannibal had a room for fantasies. Chaste ones, the realities where Will hadn’t been gutted in a kitchen, where Abigail was still alive. Where Hannibal and Will could have consummated their affection in Florence, could have learned to love each other in the tender ways they never allowed themselves before. There is no place for that now. 

“Did you want us to die when you pull us over the precipice?” Hannibal asks. 

_No._ Hannibal can’t comprehend.

“It wasn’t about wanting to die. It wasn’t even about wanting to live. That moment, Hannibal, if you could remember that moment, you’d understand.” 

Perhaps if it were just that moment he could remember, it would be enough. If Will could conjure that memory alone, he would. Will wants to live in that moment, recreate it. It seems impossible to ever feel that heightened sense of love and belonging ever again. 

To ever be seen again. 

“Are you satisfied that we lived?” 

Will recoils. 

“I was, for a moment I was. But, now. I feel like this is Hell, my punishment for doing what I did. I get you, but you I _don’t_ get you,” his voice cracks, “It’s some cruel joke.” 

God, he sounds drunk. He _is_ drunk. 

Hannibal merely cocks his head, offensively curious. 

“You are afraid. Tell me why.” 

Will very nearly breaks out into hysterics.

“Oh hell, we’re back to therapy are we?”

_I haven’t even told him he was my therapist. I’ve been wasting so much time._

“I’m afraid that you’ll never regain your memories. I’m afraid that I’ll have to be in charge of our lives while we’re on the run. I’m afraid we’ll never kill again, and that it will make us despise each other. I’m afraid you’ll never know who I am.” 

_I’m afraid of being in love with you when you aren’t here to guide me through the motions._

“Quite a handful of fears,” Hannibal understates.

Will buries the whimper threatening to crawl out of his throat into his hands. He presses his palms into his eyes, speaks into his skin. 

“You told me you would remember,” and this is definitely the drink talking now. “You told me once that if you saw me every day, you would remember that one moment in time.” 

There is a long silence, and Will doesn’t bother looking up.

He entertains the idea Hannibal has left him alone. 

“The Uffizi Gallery in Florence,” Hannibal says then. 

Will moves deliberately, looking up and to the side. Hannibal is watching him with a muddled expression, a mixture of confusion and confidence. Will holds back a smile, hope crashing over him like a tidal wave.

“Can you remember?” he asks, feeling close to _resolution._

“I can remember what the gallery looked like. I was sitting on a bench, I believe. I remember sketching, and hearing footsteps behind me. That is all I remember.” 

He does remember. Pieces, maybe, but Hannibal had kept his promise to Will. How could he not have? Hannibal would always keep his word.

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, emotions catapulting through him in a way that makes him loose, wanting. He presses his lips together to prevent them from quivering, and Hannibal looks right back at him, intensely and longingly. If it were not for the alcohol, he might not do what he’s about to do. 

Hannibal’s lips part and he crashes into him with a kiss.

 _Perhaps this_ **_can_ ** _be a fairy tale._

He doesn’t revel in the kiss, doesn’t celebrate. He can’t admire the soft feeling of Hannibal’s lips against his own, can’t even acknowledge the warmth spreading in his belly, down his thighs as he presses closer, intrudes further into him. He is so focused on giving Hannibal that extra nudge.

“Hannibal,” he murmurs against his lips. “Come back to me, please.”

Hannibal isn’t kissing back, rigid with dubiety. 

The tears do start flowing then, and it makes everything wet and suffocating, but he can’t stop. He’s drunk, and he wants him, he wants Hannibal to flip him around and whisper secrets in his ear, confessions of his own, wants him to take him and return to his rightful place, by Will’s side.

“Hannibal, please, I can’t do this alone.” 

There is no response, nothing more than an erratic breathing pattern coming from Hannibal, so he descends, kisses his chin, buries his face into his sternum. 

The warmth of the bluff is absent, and Hannibal’s body is tense and unwelcoming.

“I killed you,” Will whispers the agonizing truth.

 _I kissed him,_ he realizes belatedly. He pulls back, and stares into Hannibal’s eyes. He finds only acceptance and understanding and it makes his skin crawl.

Then, Hannibal strokes his cheek and he’s brought back to his kitchen in Baltimore. 

Hannibal might never return. Life could never be that easy.

“I am right beside you,” he assures, echoing words of a man Will considers dead.

Will grabs his wine, skittering away from the living room with the speed and flighty nature of a rat. He can’t stay in the living room, not after what he just did. He can’t stay at all. 

In his bedroom, he downs the rest of his drink and finds a suitcase tucked away in his closet. He throws it on his bed and starts haphazardly throwing shirts and pants in, necessities.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, he can’t go home and he can’t stay here. 

Half way through, Will sinks to his knees, and drags the suitcase off the bed, tossing it hard against the wall. Articles of clothing scatter every which way, and he tugs at his own hair, ripping out strands in the process.

He’d be leaving Hannibal alone, defenseless. 

It dawns on him how selfish that would be. Just because Will cannot keep a lid on his feelings, his emotions, doesn’t mean that Hannibal’s done anything wrong. He’s been here for him, every step of the way, no matter how rude and abrasive Will has been in return.

And, he’s well aware he’s beyond drunk.

He can’t leave. 

He wouldn’t survive the separation. 

For a moment, Will basks in the silence. The moonlight shines in through the window, and the sound of cicadas chirping gives him a clutch for balance. 

An hour passes, or perhaps no time at all.

Will laughs, loudly and brightly. 

Hannibal would critique his poor pity party, would chastise him for being so trite. There are solutions here, hidden between the lines, and Will can find them. He just has to muster the courage and the patience.

It seems so simple now.

He’ll help Hannibal and he’ll accept their life here rather than force what must come naturally.

Hannibal could have died that night, but he hadn’t. It is time Will accepts the truth. 

* * *

Will leans back in the chair he’d lugged up from the dining room. 

He stretches his legs, feels the fabric cling to the hair on his calves and thighs. He unbuttons another button on his white shirt, watching Hannibal’s face carefully. If he’s turned on by the presentation, he doesn’t show it. It doesn’t stop Will from playfully lounging in a sultry manner. 

Hannibal glances up and down his body and continues sketching, pencil rasping harshly against his sketchpad. Will feels warm, and it’s not solely due to the weather. 

It’s been good, since their kiss.

Strangely good. 

Neither of them have mentioned it, which is preferable to Will who would rather keep things between them platonic for the time being. At least until Hannibal’s memories are back.

It feels good to bury his fears, not allow them to control him. Bedelia might have said something about how repressing one’s emotions would lead to a dam breaking, but Will cannot allow himself to stop believing in Hannibal’s recovery. If he does, he’ll be lost.

Will wants to ask if Hannibal is titillated by him. 

Instead, he tells him a story.

“Your designs were gorgeous. These fantastical presentations of the human body, sometimes even too surreal for me to even consider an actual victim present in the art. I could feel you crafting them. There was one where you filled a man’s stomach with venomous flowers, put him on display like a blossom tree,” Will muses. “It hollered with your aesthetic, I have no clue how nobody else saw it, but me.” 

“You apparently saw me quite often. Is that why I was drawn to you?” Hannibal asks. 

Will swallows, shifting in his seat. The setting sun feels hot on the nape of his neck when he responds, “I think you were drawn to me first because I had the potential to see you.”

Hannibal hums, continuing to sketch.

“What did I do with the innards?”

Will wavers. He is sunk back into the white noise in his head.

“What?”

“With the man’s organs. You said I filled his stomach with flowers. Where did the entrails go?” 

Will considers telling him about the cannibalism. It hasn’t been spoken between them yet, and Hannibal hasn’t so much as glanced at the news, unwilling to take in information that isn’t directly from Will’s mouth. 

He supposes he should feel flattered by that, but it gives him an overwhelming sense of power, one similar to when Chiyoh had entrusted him with Hannibal’s assets. 

“Disposed of them accordingly, I guess,” Will mutters, at last.

Hannibal can see he’s only spouting half truths, but he doesn’t press the matter. He continues to gaze at Will and transfer what he sees to paper.

Will buries his guilt, as he continues to bury his doubts. 

* * *

“I believe I have a knack for it,” Hannibal tells Will. 

He knows how to dance, why did Will expect otherwise?

“Of course you do,” he grumbles fondly, and allows Hannibal to take his hand and lead him out into the middle of the living room. Without letting go of his grip on Will, he turns on some music, entirely suited for Tango. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Will warns. “I haven’t danced since prom.” 

Hannibal smirks, intertwines their fingers with one hand, and circles Will’s waist with the other. Will gulps as he’s tugged closer, and allows his hand to rest on the arm holding him close. 

_This was a bad idea._

The beat picks up, and they start moving. 

“Forward with the left, forward with the right…that’s it, Will,” Hannibal instructs. Will watches Hannibal’s feet, vehemently attempting to follow along. “Follow my lead.”

“Always,” Will teases, getting into the rhythm. 

It satisfies him to see Hannibal happy. Ever since Will started acting softer, kinder, he’s been more pleasant, open. He allows Will to lead most often, despite his saying otherwise. 

When Will stumbles, Hannibal catches him. When he makes the wrong step, he does not criticize him, he helps him to incorporate it into their dance. It isn’t a tango by any professional standards, but it is enough to enjoy himself, get caught up in the moment.

His blood is racing before he knows it, his heart pounding loud. 

Hannibal spins him close to a wall, and Will laughs, chasing him into the middle of the room and allowing their bodies to grow closer as they step back and forth. They haven’t taken their eyes off of each other. It feels like old times, challenging and devious.

Hannibal loosens his grip on Will’s back and he goes pliantly, falling nimbly enough to look balletic before he’s tugged back up, chest to chest. He grips his shoulders for support. 

“I can’t believe you just dipped me,” Will exclaims.

“More of a partial dip,” Hannibal jokes. “You handled it quite well.”

“Yeah?” Will’s cheeks feel hot. 

The music has slowed, and so they follow suit. For a moment, it is intimate, and Will wants to nuzzle into Hannibal’s chest, pretend they’ve just been scorched by Dragon’s breath. 

“Tell me,” Hannibal implores.

Will decides to tell him something else.

“I used to think your murders were something of a dance for you. Back when the Chesapeake Ripper was at his most prolific, it was like a dance that the FBI couldn’t keep up with, every part of your design was meticulated, three steps ahead. I found it alluring, in a way.” 

“Is that why you joined me?” Hannibal asks, always preoccupied with the ‘whys’ having to do with their relationship. Will thought by now he’d understand their dynamic.

“It was more than that,” he murmurs. “I have my own design.” 

“Perhaps you’d be willing to show me one day,” Hannibal suggests, hand snaking down Will’s waist and curling his fingers under his thigh before bending his leg close to his body as the music picks up again. Will freezes, feeling the arousal surge through his body. Their groins are tucked close, _christ._

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

_Fuck._

With a scalding shudder, Will steps back. He refuses to give into temptation. His dam would break if he allowed sex to happen between them, as desperate as he feels, even just to feel close to him again, the result would be harrowing. Will would be empty again. 

But, to kill together… 

Will thanks the powers that be for the song coming to a close. 

“Goodnight Hannibal,” Will says, words as stiff as his saunter to the shower. He turns the nozzle to cold, and hops in, drowning out all intrusive thoughts and fantasies scouring through the lascivious channels of his mind. 

The cold washes away his arousal, but the fizzy feeling within is replaced with abrupt rage. He punches the wall with a closed fist and leaves a dent.

When he leaves the shower, his knuckles are still bleeding. 

* * *

It doesn’t take long at all for Will to find potential for Mayhem in their quaint Portuguese village. He is known for his gift of empathy, but he works just as well as a chameleon, with the ability to seek out the corrupt underbelly of the community, and procure a suitable target.

He does this without Hannibal’s help. 

A part of him doesn’t believe Hannibal would be in his right mind to go along, and a part of Will wants to see if he is capable of doing this on his own.

He finds a man. Dan Leitão. 

Word on the street tells Will of women bound in chains against their will, and LSD doled out in horrendous portions to minors who don’t know the difference between hallucinogens and depressants. 

For days, he’s meticulously put together a profile. Literal and mental. The more physical information Will gathers on him, the more his mental profile takes its full shape. He’d love to share with Hannibal each and every way he’d like to carve into this animal. 

For now, Will must settle for the kill alone. 

Their design will be their togetherness, nothing more.

Hannibal will finally remember. When he catches the whiff of another’s blood, when he sees Will covered in it. Will knows the memories will cascade through him, and he’ll be Will’s again. They’ll belong to each other. 

Satisfied at long last, Will gathers his papers into one manilla folder and rushes out of his study and down the stairs to the kitchen, where Hannibal is preparing food.

“I found one,” he announces.

* * *

_“Do not rely on your confidence that this will cure my affliction. Raising your expectations in any way will result in disappointment. I want you to delight in this, not tolerate it just to see if I can be cured.”_

As they stroll along the beach, side by side, these are the only words running through Will’s mind. Hannibal had warned him against hoping, and he'd already betrayed that warning.

Hannibal asks him why he doesn’t want to step foot in the ocean again. Will doesn’t have a good answer for that other than the sheer fact solid ground keeps him stabilized, attached to the earth. It doesn’t pull him in any direction. He makes his own directions as he always had before. 

_Before you and after you._

Will wants to ask Hannibal if this time in their life falls into the category of “after you” but it isn’t as if Hannibal would understand that reference. He doesn’t understand anything. 

He feels his dam cracking, as the water grows heavier with its push. 

When they find Dan, the steps Will takes to gain his immediate trust are a blur. He makes small talk, strokes the man’s ego in the ways he knows men like this revel.

“Who’s your friend here?” Dan asks, voice grating on Will’s ears.

Will looks to Hannibal who seems content just to experience any part of Will’s design. He then looks to Dan’s bulky friend, a bodyguard of sorts. Hannibal could crush him in an instant, but Will wants to know if he could crush him himself. 

“I could ask the same of you,” Will responds smoothly. 

“Protection,” Dan says with a shrug. “You know how business is.”

Time slows, and a clock ticks in Will’s head. He can see the numbers of the clock dissipate, fly off into the air, can feel his blood racing hot, and his heart throbbing as he slips his dagger through his fingers. He turns to get one last look at Hannibal. 

_See me,_ he leaves unsaid.

“I know,” he tells Dan, and then surges forward to stab his bodyguard in the neck. The man yowls, high-pitched and agonized. It spurs Will on, just as Hannibal’s ferocity keeps his adrenaline running rampantly through his veins, burning him from the inside out. 

Will focuses on the larger man in front of him for now, though he is desperate to watch Dan struggle in Hannibal’s grasp. While the bodyguard is all girth and muscle, he has none of the fire Will had been hoping for. None of the Dragon’s chutzpah. 

He drags the knife horizontally through his stomach, gutting him brutally, before dragging the knife from sternum to belly, intersecting with the first cut made. The man’s arm flails, and he screams, blood gurgling in his throat. While loud, Will finds this act quieting. 

He steps back, admiring the writhing body with a new, upside down cross formed wound jutting through his gut. It is beautiful; it makes his own blood sing. 

Will shrugs off his jacket as he steps back, tucks it into their duffel bag. He’s done with his design, what’s left is the impending denouement. 

The man is on the verge of death, but rather than watch the light fade from his eyes, he turns to watch Hannibal who has Dan in a choke hold. Dan looks terrified, blue in the face, and Hannibal looks empowered. Beautiful, in his own right. 

He watches, gazes at him intently, knowing Hannibal desires him to.

Hannibal bares his teeth, close to Dan’s ear as he squeezes tighter.

 _Bite,_ Will urges him internally. _Do it._

As if in retaliation, he doesn’t. He allows Dan’s limp body to drop before him, unmarked save for the choking bruises around his neck. Not even close to Hannibal’s design. 

He’s done, finished. 

Will walks up close to him, one last shred of hope holding the dam together. He’s kept his fears locked behind this stone wall, his sorrow, every part of his mourning had been buried deep. There is only a sliver of defense left, one thing keeping it from collapsing and crushing his bones.

Hope. 

Hannibal shakes his head.

_No._

Will’s groan comes out as more of a muffled scream when he digs his palms into his eyes. He digs so hard he sees stars, feels a lightning throb in his temples from the pain. He bends, knees weakening, because the dam has finally broken. 

Hannibal would have told him not to build it in the first place. 

This sick joke at Will’s expense reaches out to console, to _touch._

He rips his hands away from his eyes and snarls. 

He lurches forward, punching him square in the jaw. It doesn’t knock him down, but he stumbles back, ankle-deep in the sea water which is crashing closer and closer.

When Hannibal regains his footing, Will smacks him hard, watching with furious eyes as he falls backwards on his hands and feet, only watching Will with wonder, with _fucking_ admiration. 

_Enough._

Will takes those last steps into ocean water and falls to his knees, shoving Hannibal hard, underneath the waves as they crash up heavy and tough against the two of them. Equal parts misery and rage, he does it again, shouting “Remember damn it!” as if the words would break through the foggy veil left in Will’s destructive wake. He wants to do it again, shove him under and keep him there, writhing and thrashing. Watch his limbs go loose with death.

Will chokes on air, scrambling backwards when he realizes what he’s done, what he was going to do. _Doing._ Their lives will become a vicious cycle. Forts and dams rebuilt only to be demolished, for rage to seep through as violently as their love. 

_Love._

This is Hannibal, this isn’t a vessel. 

Hannibal is broken, he’s not lost.

He just can’t measure up as Will’s equal, not anymore. 

Hannibal is fighting to catch his breath, chest heaving and salt water glistening all over his body. He looks like a Greed God, fallen from the sky. If only God could remember his sins.

Will shakes his head, horrendously tired all of a sudden. He turns away from Hannibal, leaving him there to do as he pleases. Maybe he won’t come home. 

Could Will live with that?

Will all but limps back towards their villa. He doesn’t look back, and he takes nothing with him. Leaves the duffel bag with Hannibal, leaves the two bodies soulless and mutilated. He trudges home, no thoughts on his mind other than how tired he is. 

When he gets home, he picks up a wine bottle, and wonders briefly, sardonically, if this is going to become a vicious cycle too. On and off the bend, like he’d never left, like he’d never started. 

It is a long time until Hannibal comes home.

Long enough that he sifts through a hundred apologies, and bounces back and forth between whether or not he actually wants to give Hannibal an apology. By the time he decides he doesn’t, Hannibal comes home and saunters to the kitchen.

He doesn’t acknowledge Will. It is a first.

Will changes his mind, realizing an apology is necessary to maintain some semblance of sanity in this house. The words, “I’m sorry,” are half out of his mouth when he enters the kitchen and stops when he sees just _what_ is on the counter. 

Organs, a variety of them. So many, they cover the island. 

They stare at each other from across the room, and Will forgets all about the failure of this night. Of their mutual design. He forgets about the pain he’d inflicted upon him, about stepping into the ocean for the first time since the bluff. 

“Why?” Will asks, pure wonder radiating through him. “Why did you take those?” 

The stark truth that Will never once mentioned anything about cannibalism when retelling Hannibal’s crimes to him rings loud and clear in this moment, and his heart skips a beat when Hannibal responds. 

“I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

This isn’t a ploy, or manipulation of any kind, which only makes Will want to shiver, from the force of his full-bodied excitement. 

He crosses his arms and nods at the meat, “You had an urge to take them didn’t you?”

Hannibal nods. Will rejoices internally. 

“What are your urges telling you to do now?”

They stare at each other and Hannibal smiles in a way that feels like home.

“To do what I do best.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath, relief wracking his body because of _course_ this is how it would end. The solution had been so conspicuous, staring him right in the face.

_Consumption._

“I’ll set the table.” 

* * *

They take showers, both watching the meat in turns as they suit up. Not a word passes between them the entire time, not while Hannibal is slicing, dicing, frying, and not while Will is setting up plates with utensils, napkins, a centerpiece. 

When the dishes are set out, Will notices they are all garnished properly.

He lights the candles, surprised when his hand doesn’t tremble.

Hannibal and Will watch each other intently, and Will’s salivates over the scents surrounding him. Not just the meat, but the cinnamon candles, Hannibal’s heavy cologne. It feels like Baltimore, it feels like _Hannibal Lecter._

Will takes the first bite of the heart that had been placed in front of him. Half of the organ is on Hannibal’s plate. He slices a meager piece off, eyes fluttering shut when it hits his tongue. The talent of this man is still palpable, and unbelievable. Will could die in this instant and be satisfied. He opens his eyes, filled with joy and contentment.

As Hannibal is cutting into his portion, Will swears he can hear the ocean waves close by. Crashing, louder and louder by the second. If they’re not careful, the house could sink under. 

Hannibal brings a slice of meat to his lips, and Will watches his nostrils flare, wonders how disparate the scents are for him. He closes his mouth over the fork, and slides it onto his tongue with his lips. There is an inherent eroticism to it that makes Will’s blood boil. He remembers eating the Ortolan birds whole, how it had felt to see Hannibal devour something entirely.

Hannibal’s eyes shoot open, falling to him with a bob of his throat, and Will feels devoured. 

Will understands then why Hannibal had told him he has no desire to hide from God. 

“I remember,” he declares, lips spreading into a devilish smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god this was incredibly taxing, but i'm glad i went outside my comfort zone. i always wanted to write a fic that was somewhat the same but in the perspective of another character, and i don't think i'll be repeating that exercise anytime soon, but i'm excited to write the conclusion to this series (the third will be the last). hope this wasn't the worst thing i've ever written xoxo


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